


Witnessed

by travellinghopefully



Category: Original Work
Genre: Car Accidents, Child Death, Gen, Loss, bereavement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-28
Updated: 2015-09-28
Packaged: 2018-04-23 20:06:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4890346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/travellinghopefully/pseuds/travellinghopefully
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is an original story based on real events, not all of them happened at the same time</p>
            </blockquote>





	Witnessed

Travelling to work on a grey Monday, the creak of the suspension, the smell of the upholstery, the monotonous conversation blended together into a mind numbing panacea. The traffic trailed back, a snarl up somewhere ahead, nothing new. Once again my fellow passenger launched into his litany of a life repeated in a ground hog loop. Why he felt compelled to articulate exactly the same things every single day, the programmes he had watched or listened to, the cocoa he made every night, in the same way, at the same time? Details no one needed to know, details that no one could possibly be interested in. His voice faded out.

The roundabout.

The bike.

The ambulance.

The institutional grey blanket covering the unmoving form.

A school girl.

A room forever a memorial, a shrine. Nothing ever moved, everything just waiting for a return. Dusted and polished, every week, on time, without fail. Fresh flowers, clean bedding, the favourite teddy replace, tucked in, just so. Waiting.

At school, the teacher remembering to skip the name on the register until the name was erased. Seeing the name appear again months later on the exam entries. There again, after the grief had softened to numbness, the absence now common place. A name on a list ripping open memories, letting them spill and coil.

The fury of classes when an unknowing substitute called the name.

The end of year prom, the lad who’s gone with friends, the lad who would rather have stayed home, the lad who didn’t have a date. The one who met the words “its time to move on, its time to let her go” with fury, with anger raw and uncontained.

The girls who never knew her, never talked to her, looked down on her, overcome with grief. Trying to share in the stories of those who really knew her. As if grief was glamorous, so hungry for attention they would take this and use this, talk to the press, leave flowers, be in photos, plaster fb with how much they loved the girl they never spoke to. It didn’t hurt, they were immortal.

The shop on Saturday. The old ladies loved her, so polite, cheerful, helpful, not like most youngsters nowadays. Such a tragedy, such a shame, something should be done.

An impromptu shrine on the roundabout. Flowers, toys, candles, pictures. Those same girls hazarding traffic to run across, place something there. The selfies – trying to look sad, mascara tastefully running, lipstick freshly applied. Hazard to traffic, you can’t have that here. Everything swept away, binned, anger, fury. He said, she said, a fight in the town. Everyone blamed.

That day, the news, the tv, the radio. Nor our lass, she’s safe, she’s careful, she’s at school, anyway, we’d have heard, someone would have rung. Not our lass, she’s fine.

Making her favourite for tea, popping down the shops for the missing ingredients. Stopping to chat to everyone, had she heard the news, wasn’t it awful, her poor family, how they must feel, no-one should outlive their children.

Back to the house, from a distance the police car. Not their house, no, must be someone else’s, another family. And it didn’t mean anything anyway, a lot of sheds had been broken into recently. That’s what it’ll be. Nothing to worry about, not dawdling, get home, get the tea on. And dropping the bags and letting things smash and roll unheeded and falling to your knees as it is your door the WPC is standing at. It could still be nothing, trying to gather everything up, such a mess and a lovely young policeman is helping you and you’re crying because he’s saying “sorry, I’m sorry” over and over again. And you’re ruining his fine white handkerchief and he says it doesn’t matter, but it does.

That night, they don’t give her name on the news, but they say family has been informed, and you haven’t had a call, so its not her, they’d have called you if it was her.  
The next morning, the name on the news, the smashed crockery on the floor, they forgot you. They didn’t think to phone you. You attend the funeral buy you never speak to them again, some things can’t be forgiven and family isn’t everything.

Some people stop calling, stop writing, cross the street as if death is contagious, keeping away in case you infect their children.

Others pause, place a sickly sweet mile on their faces, touch your arm, look you in the eye and slowly say in that special voice, “how are you dear.”

And you don’t know who you hate more. 

SHUT UP, SHUT UP, SHUT UP, GO AWAY!

Have you tried counselling? These tablets will help.

The driver. It wasn’t your fault. You hadn’t been drinking had you? There’ll be an enquiry you know. And the glances at the whispers and the conversations that stop when you go into the room. The people pointing him out in public, that’s the man that killed that poor girl. Hanging is too good for the likes of him. It was an accident. It was definitely his fault. She didn’t stand a chance.

Time passed, other families celebrated weddings, grand children. Houses filled up with drawings and toys, jam smears, photos and memories. They had absence and loss and emptiness. Friends hesitated to show them photos, tell them stories, they stopped being invited anywhere. They weren’t dead.

They only wished they were.


End file.
